So This is Love
by LuxKen27
Summary: Disney's classic canon (1950s) missing scene. The Prince awaits the results of the Grand Duke's search for his missing lady love, despairing all the while that he may never see her again.


**Title:** So This is Love

 **Author:** LuxKen27

 **Fandom:** _Cinderella (1950)_

 **Universe:** Canon

 **Genre:** Romance

 **Rating:** K+

 **Word Count:** 2,097

 **Summary:** Canon/missing scene. The Prince awaits the results of the Grand Duke's search for his missing lady love, while despairing all the while that he may never see her again.

 _Author's note:_ Written for the 2017 Summer Mini Challenge prompt eyes.

 **DISCLAIMER:** The _Cinderella_ concept, storyline, and characters are © 1950 Charles Perrault/Walt Disney Productions. No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.

.xxxxx.

Her eyes haunted him, long into the night.

Long after she'd left him without so much as a name, much less any way to find her.

Could it have all been a dream?

His father was so impatient for him to marry and produce heirs – grandchildren, solely for his own personal amusement. He'd barely made it through university unscathed, much less his time in the royal command. Every time he returned to the Palace, his father cooked up some new plan to have him leg shackled and loving it.

It's why he never returned to his childhood home, if he could at all help it.

This was no exception; unfortunately, he'd had no other choice. His commission in the royal command had come to an end; the next time he donned military dress would be as their king and lord general. He'd tried to keep his inevitable homecoming as quiet as possible, but of course word had made it the ears of his father, the King, in record time. He'd returned just in time to find the Palace in the midst of mad preparations for a royal ball, ostensibly to celebrate his return – but more likely, it was yet another scheme for his father to pair him off with some eligible maiden.

He'd turned away every offer for all of princesses of age already, and his father had long ago given up trying to pair him with daughters boasting gentle birth. Too many men in their kingdom came into their titles for military prowess or success in trade, and they tended to produce gauche offspring.

His father was so desperate for progeny, however, that he'd opened up the possibility of the common-born to rise into the royal ranks with this ball. Every eligible maiden in the kingdom was there, and he, as the noble Prince, was duty-bound to acknowledge every single one of them as they were formally presented to him.

He'd made sure to fortify himself with plenty of champagne during the pre-ball royal supper.

At first, it was all he could do to stifle his yawns; after a while, he didn't even bother to do that. He was exhausted from his journey, and his father hadn't given him the decency of a day to recover before foisting this scheme upon him. Names droned on, and faces began to blur together as girls stepped forward one at a time and dipped into a curtsy before him.

His back grew stiff from standing there; he had to clutch his sword belt to keep himself upright between bows. He made his displeasure known by shooting his father dirty looks in the balcony, but the King seemed to find great amusement in his irritation.

Time seemed to crawl by as the list of names to be read grew ever longer. He was just starting to nod off when he first saw her, a vision in glittering silver. She lurked in the shadows beyond the ballroom, but there was something about her – some magnetic pull against which he had no resistance. Almost in spite of himself, he moved forward, towards her, as she wandered ever closer to the ballroom.

He caught her hand and drew her attention, and that was the first time he noticed her beautiful, deep blue eyes. The color was unusual – cerulean with a hint of teal, the color of the Mediterranean just beyond the Greek isles. Her eyes were deeply colored, and yet at the same time quite bright, as if dancing with coy mischief.

All it took was one look, and he fell totally, completely, and helplessly in love.

He had never seen her before in his life. He had no idea who she was, or where she'd come from. All he knew was that she had to be his.

He vowed, then and there, to stop at _nothing_ to claim her.

She danced beautifully, as if the waltz had been designed especially for her. She fit perfectly into his arms, as if her body had been molded solely for such purpose. They swirled around the ballroom in perfect cadence, the rest of the crowd fading away, as if in a dream.

He couldn't take his eyes off of hers, though he did manage to bring the rest of her face into focus. She had golden blonde hair, swept up into some sort of complicated design; a small, pert nose; rosy-peach colored lips, soft and full. Her beauty was ethereal, enhanced by her unusual silvery gown, which sparkled and shone in the moonlight.

They walked out onto the terrace, and then deep into the gardens, past the fountain and the stream. They didn't speak; he didn't want to break this wondrous spell with ordinary words. She hummed softly as they distanced themselves from the ballroom, filling his head with silly romantic ideals: _So this is love… So this is what makes life divine…_

"My heart has wings, and I can fly," she murmured as he slipped a finger under her chin, lifting her face to his. "I'll touch every star in the sky…"

He could feel the whisper of her breath on his lips when she suddenly pulled out of his grasp, panic seizing her lustrous features as the tower clock chimed midnight. She made her excuses and fled, but not before searing him with one final, piercing look as she lifted her skirts and disappeared into the ballroom.

That look – her eyes – haunted him, long into the night.

He vowed not to rest until he found her, but his father stayed him, sending the Grand Duke out on the hopeless errand in his stead. The King insisted that he take to his bed and rest, but how could he? He yearned for her: for those eyes, those lips, those soft, full curves…

But then sleep came all too easily, making him wonder: had it been just a dream?

.xxxxx.

 _ **A Royal Proclamation.**_

 _All loyal subjects of his Imperial Majesty are hereby notified by Royal Proclamation that in regard to a certain glass slipper, it is upon this day decreed that a Quest be instituted throughout the length and breadth of our Domain, the sole and express purpose of said Quest to be as follows, to wit: That every single maiden in our beloved Kingdom, without privilege or exception, shall try upon her foot this aforementioned slipper of glass, and should one be found upon whose foot said slipper shall properly fit, such maiden will be acclaimed the object of this search and immediately forthwith shall be looked upon as the one and only true love of his Royal Highness, our beloved son and heir, the noble Prince. And said noble Prince will humbly and upon bended knee, beg, request, or if need be, implore said maiden to grant her hand in marriage. Where upon, should the aforementioned maiden look with favor upon his suit, then should the happy couple pledge their troth, and in due course, upon the inevitable demise of his most gracious and august majesty, the King, succeed to the throne there to rule over all the land as King and Queen of our beloved Kingdom. So be it._

.xxxxx.

He awoke the next morning in the foulest of moods. News of the Royal Proclamation did nothing to improve it.

"Only my father," he groused at the breakfast table, to no one in particular. "Only he could come up with such a foolhardy scheme!"

It certainly served his purposes: he'd finally marry off his only son, which he'd been aiming to do for the last decade. But what were the odds that they'd find his mystery maiden during this so-called Quest? Surely this glass slipper could fit any number of girls in the Kingdom – and beyond!

He didn't think he'd had _that_ much to drink last night, but his pounding headache told him otherwise. He felt very small, and very trapped, in the one place he loathed to be: under his father's thumb.

He sequestered himself in his wing of the Palace for the rest of the day. He didn't wish to see anyone, and he dreaded the thought of the Grand Duke returning with a bevy of tiny-footed giggling schoolgirls. His mysterious enchantress was surely long gone by now, running away as she had at the stroke of midnight. She'd had enough of a head start to lose the royal guard just beyond the village.

It was hopeless. He was destined to be haunted by those beautiful blue eyes for the rest of his life.

The sun was beginning to set when the knock sounded at his door. For a long moment, he contemplated not answering it, but knew his father's stubbornness could beat his any day. With a put-upon sigh, he bade his visitor entrance.

A royal footman, still standing in the hall, pushed open the door and bowed deeply at the waist. "The Grand Duke has returned, Your Highness," he demurred. "His Majesty requests your attendance to the green sitting room."

He nodded a dismissal to the trembling servant, but took his time walking through the corridors. The green sitting room was at the front of the Palace, a formal parlor used for greeting noble guests. Silence descended around him as he approached, and his heart skipped a beat.

Could it be? Had they possibly found – _her_?

As if sensing his approach, the door swung open, and the Grand Duke swept into a lavish bow. "Your Highness," he began, "may I present to you…?"

He glanced into the room, but saw no one – at first. Slowly, a tiny slip of a girl edged into a shaft of dying sunlight from a nearby window. She was dressed in drab brown, her hair pulled back in a servant's chignon. Fine particles of dust shimmered around her bowed head. She looked as though she should be clutching a broom and quietly cleaning a corner.

He had just opened his mouth to question the Grand Duke's sanity when the girl looked up, her gaze finding and meeting his.

His jaw dropped. It was _her_ – he'd know those deep cerulean eyes anywhere. That magnetic pull from the night before resurfaced, compelling him to approach her, to reach out, to lift her chin with his finger.

"What is your name?" he asked softly.

She flushed, a pretty pink blush blossoming across her dust-covered features. "I am called Cinderella," she replied.

His lips quirked into a smile as he traced the crest of her dirt-smudged cheek with his thumb. "Cinders," he surmised, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

She nodded, her eyes still locked onto his.

"So you are Ella," he continued. "Ella…?"

"Tremaine, sire," the Grand Duke provided. "Miss Ella Tremaine, daughter of the late Lord Tremaine, and a former resident of the Tremaine Château."

"A former servant," she corrected wryly, wringing her hands together.

"Indeed," the Grand Duke sniffed, his tone decidedly disgusted. "I found her working as a scullery maid for her fortune-hunting stepmother. It was a good thing, indeed, that the Royal Proclamation required _all_ young maidens to try on the slipper, or else she would've been lost to us forever."

But he wasn't listening. The notes of their waltz from the night before floated through his mind as he gazed deeply into her eyes. He wrapped his arms around her, reveling in the perfection of their fit, and found his enchantress's smile underneath the layers of dirt and plain cloth.

He twirled her around the green sitting room, to the music he heard only in his head, and his heart melted when she began to hum softly, just as she had the night before. "The key to all heaven is mine," he said softly, pulling her close and brushing his lips on hers.

Tears slipped down her cheeks as she eased away, reaching out to touch his face. "This is the miracle that I've been dreaming of," she whispered, tracing the outline of his features wither fingertips.

He smiled and pulled her close again, his lips finding hers in an urgent, needy kiss. She yielded to him, her hands drifting up into his hair.

He didn't care what the Royal Proclamation said. He didn't care that the Grand Duke was still standing there, witnessing this impetuous moment of complete impropriety. He didn't need to go down on bended knee to ask this girl to marry him. Her response to his kiss was the only answer he needed.

 _So this is love_ , he contemplated, as each kiss cascaded into yet another.

How had he ever managed to live without it?


End file.
